


The Eye Burns

by Daastan_Go



Category: Naruto
Genre: Brotherhood, Brothers, Family, Friendship, Love, Morbid, Other, Tragedy, Uchiha Massacre, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28797813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daastan_Go/pseuds/Daastan_Go
Summary: At the Valley of the End, the battle between the boys ends in a different manner.
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	The Eye Burns

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I'm not making any money from this story.

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Benighted in a dreary gloom—autumn’s thick mist—a boy went down and fell to the rain-covered ground. Water was propelled into the air. There was not enough noise to announce his defeat; in the storm, the fall was silent.

Lightning fulminated and thunder cracked down on his back like a well-oiled whip. This sound rattled through his bones, sinews trembling in answer, blood quickening and making haste to the heart. And he dropped onto his knees, head bent down in exhaustion to stare at the boy’s supine form, with a disposition wary.

Rain flattened that yellow hairs to his wet skin; they had grown out in the most peculiar fashion after being closely shorn in his childhood. Now, there was no kind hand to guide their paths with an affection sweet: he, too, had lost it . . .

Raindrops streamed down his cheeks and merged together on the smooth tip of his nose to form a big round drop. Then it slid off his skin, and he blinked again like a mask had been forcefully removed from his face, leaving him vulnerable before _the_ spectator’s appraising eyes.

Little boy, affrighted by what was in the blood—he looked about, gaze roving beyond the pall, Sharingan satisfying his eyes with the most red ink created by Nature’s able hands. There was nothing out here: it was a quiet place filled with a chorus of sounds, both violent and turbulent. Statues stood tall and still behind the ponderous tricks of rain and mist. They flanked the waterfall, two parallel and smooth-faced quiet walls.

He saw their stern expressions clearly now; Nature had wrought their miens more trouble than a craftsmen's hands ever could: cracks adorned the wind-beaten countenances forever frozen in challenge; war waged on in their stone-breasts, warm, struggling hearts in bodies made of stone—this battle was eternal!

His eyes left their fissure-riddled faces and thick moss that filled the cracks to give them a distinct green about the round gargantuan cheeks. There was more at the lips, too; it granted Madara's expression an illusion of a clever smile—a thing made of stone was not even capable of. It was a ghost, just flickering there and giving away a secret that he had a mean trick up his sleeve.

He put his hand to his face, breathing hard, words reverberating and tearing through him, a swarm of impatient flies above the cracked carapace of an aged arachnid's battered body . . . in the shimmering, searing sunlight—an engulfing dawn.

In each searing transmission of his innocent heart, he heard reason in _his brother's_ words. Now was the time to lay down his sword, cede to his foe’s conquering tongue, embrace the hate he needed to fill the spirit within and without: to take a swig, swallow it down . . . down . . . feel it poison the body and trigger the change he would need to fight him, a necessary metamorphosis to elevate his empyreal form, make it rise above the mortal battles he fought.

Rise. Rise. Rise.

His fingers reversed and cool wind gusted against his face and raindrops formed a film over the red, but it was too powerful, hungered to feel threatened. He raised his sure hand, fingers contorting, eyes seeing the foggy shine flickering on his friend's calm face. It was innocent; a smile was almost beginning to dance upon the pink lips there—the smile of an unwary child. He, too, was one, lost in the dark ragged-red of his village's streets.

Drink. Drink. Drink.

Words kept haunting from the inside—outside. Wisps of his warm breaths, short and quick, fogged the air. Like a violent torrent, chakra ran through, merged with the utmost seduction, there in the veins beneath his skin and bones. And it forced itself to climb onto his arm, mounting it, and took on the sharp shape of Raiton that was as smooth and cruel as his brother's blade.

He saw the face one last time and gazed at the shadow his claw cast on the boy's flushed cheek. It was cold, but his body was still warm with life. Then his hand descended, and upon impact, birds chirped louder in his ears—flown away they had in frenzy: singing, the blade went in through the boy’s breast, crushed the heart. With the attack’s force, blood exploded out and splashed his face. It was warm and hot and smelt rusty. The smile that was forming on the boy’s lips stopped in its tracks. His countenance changed a little as though he had realised his fate under the mantle of sleep—a bit of its innocent splendour was left lingering on the face as a farewell.

He pulled his hand out, watching the rain wash it clean. The warm sensation quivered off with the pink. It was gone—that euphoric sensation of the kill. Guilt went away: power surged in. Gooseflesh rippled down his face and neck, and Chakra changed his form. Just two red droplets on the ghostly smile there, diluting away quickly, and he knew—he just knew!

Slowly, he reached up to touch the corner of his eyes. The world looked more clear, more beautiful now. Rain fell down in a manner as though _he_ was its architect and knew the path it would take. The cracks in Hashirama's face were uglier. There was a trace of betrayal upon his face, a little touch of it which only _he_ could see. The harsh chisel and clever hand had done their work well.

He rose to stand up on his feet and felt his body tingle with the new change. This was truly a magnificent feeling; sorrow was on the sluggish ebb, and now, vengeance was flowing in, roaring its arrival. And waves upon waves of a spiteful rain crashed upon him, and he felt nothing but an uplifting kind of elation that made him smile as his friend's blood went out unabated from the great wound. He was dead. The deed was done; and somewhere out there, his friend's unwilling prisoner had been born anew, a babe without Leaf’s keep . . . evermore free!

To him, it mattered not. He walked out towards the shine flickering below the horizon that arched high above the thicket of trees. His feet sloshed through the rain slowly. There was no one on his tail. The little dead boy's scent was going in death; his mentor's hound would surely fail him this time.

So he walked with a steady pace and firm steps and traced the trail of a much-longed vengeance worn into the muddy path. Only _he_ could see it, no one else. It was meant for him—only him. The new eyes burnt with a ferocious gleam. He had done what his brother had asked. Just a little more . . . just a little more, and he would truly be free . . . _free!_

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**The End**


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